


The Many Deaths of Me

by Tolpen



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Bolvar is trying to be a good Lich King, Canon-Typical Violence, Cats are important, Everyday life in Naxxramas, Fuck Canon I Have Ideas, In fact nobody is okay, Kel'thuzad is not okay, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Psychological/Emotional Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Science in background, Undeath is hard, bottled feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2018-10-25 17:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10769013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tolpen/pseuds/Tolpen
Summary: Bolvar is a new Lich King of the Scourge. He tries to be a good king.Kel'thuzad tries to be supportive and fulfill his Master's demands. All while he has to be a good master of the Cult of the Damned.No one said it would be easy.But maybe this time... Maybe this time it could be happy at least a little bit. And maybe it could last a while.Additional note: No longer part of HeadQuarters Verse. I am kidnapping this things to fuck up everything. My decision is final





	1. The King is Dead, Long Die the King

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the Fall of the Lich King but before the beginning of Cataclysm.

 

There is this thing they don't tell you about dying – it gave you mother of all headaches. In all those tomes and epic sagas there could had been at least once mentioned that the brave heroes and mighty beings who returned from the Other side felt like a horse kicked thorough their head. This terrible pain was usually why your freshly resurrected dead scream in agony and want to destroy things.

This terrible pain was also why the Archlich of the Scourge was sitting on the floor, head in hands, cultists standing in a circle of respectful distance while some lesser acolytes were searching the Naxxramas to get Mr. Bigglesworth or any of her kittens.

“Fine,” Kel'thuzad growled when he felt he might engage into any kind of conversation without the need to freeze people in ice. “I want to hear all the reports since my corporeal for had been destroyed. Ah, thank you Gwen.” The last sentence was directed to a little girl, who was dressed in a robe too big for her, giving him his loved cat.

One of the cultists was brave enough to sigh a mumble: “There is nothing much to tell you, Master. The Icecrown Citadel had fallen under the siege of united forces of the Ebon Blade, Argent Dawn, and various mercenaries allying with either Horde or Alliance.”

“Heroes,” said another cultist.

The first one turned to his sister: “Excuse you, what?”

“They call themselves heroes. Not mercenaries,” explained the orc.

“Oh, do they? So heroes then. They still fight for money. Anyway the Citadel has fallen and the Lich King has been slain.”

“However there has been a new Lich King and it is his wish to talk to you, Master, once you gain your form,” spoke the orc again.

“Hmmm,” Kel'thuzad was petting Mr. Bigglesworth's back. “I see, I see. Now tell me, has any of you thought about flying this damned necropolis to the Icecrown so I could speak to Lord Fordragon right away?” The cultists had at least enough dignity to look ashamed, because it didn't came on their mind at all. Plenty of them excused themselves out of the room to fix this horrific mistake.

“Master Kel'thuzad, I apologize for the need to ask...”

“What is it, Gwen?”

“How did you know the new Lich King is Lord Fordragon?” The girl shuffled her feet and rubbed her hands together. Her nose and ears were red with cold and Kel'thuzad made a mental note to find the acolytes responsible for central heating in Naxxramas and scare the hell out of them.

He stood up and let Mr. Bigglesworth to walk away. If he had lips, he would have smiled: “Because I took certain precautions to make sure it would be Bolvar Fordragon, had the Citadel fallen.”

Gwen nodded without really understanding what her Master meant, and fled back to her duties as fast as her steel leg allowed her.

 

Kel'thuzad was standing in front of his new master. _For sure talking to a shadowy silhouette with a spike helmet frozen in ice on a throne brings back some unpleasant memories,_ was his very first thought when he entered the Citadel. He didn't like to remember Ner'zhul. It wasn't about remembering being human, it was about remembering how it felt. It was painful, dripping with pure terror and hate towards himself. The Archlich was very grateful he could feel no longer.

However unlike Ner'zhul and later Arthas, Bolvar hadn't yet mastered the gentle art of seeing into minds of his minions. Didn't change a thing about him talking to people in their heads...

_WOULD YOU BE SO KIND AND STOPPED FLOATING?_

Kel'thuzad, who didn't expect it at all, flinched. “I am sorry?”

_YOUR FEET. COULD THEY BE TOUCHING THE GROUND?_

The Archlich was confused but he did as asked. “Your wish is my command, Master.”

_AND DON'T CALL ME MAST- LISTEN, IS THERE SOMETHING WRONG WITH YOU OR WHY ARE YOU TWITCHING LIKE THAT?_

There would be a sarcastic comment that people tend to twitch and flinch when a voice in their head yells at full volume, but in the past Kel'thuzad's witty behaviour was me with punishment rather than understanding or even humour. “I apologize, Master.”

_DON'T CALL ME MASTER! Holy Light Kel'thuzad have you just freeze yourself to place?_

Kel'thuzad's vision of the Lich King was a bit blurry with all the magical shields he instinctively casted on himself. He looked at his feet. There certainly was a lot of hoarfrost. Frost shields were always the tricky ones when combined with other magic. If skulls with horns could make embarrassed expression, Kel'thuzad would made it.

_How wonderful. I have an army of undead with my second in command panicking whenever I lose the control of my voice. Mental voice. Whatever this way of communicating is._

“We usually just call it telepathy, Mas- Your Highness.”

_Lord Fordragon. Or just Bolvar. Cut out all the unnecessary titles._

“As you wish, Lord Fordragon.”

 

It was... Strange. The last thing you expect the Lich King to be is kind and caring. And he also wanted to understand how does the Scourge which was also entirely new. He even went so far to get himself out of the ice block and just watch and learn.

This was probably how he walked onto Lady Deathwhisper and Kel'thuzad arguing over an elven corpse on table. The argument was probably quite heated, given the vivid gesticulation, however the two liches were using telepathy and Bolvar still wasn't comfortable to enter other people's minds, despite he knew how to do so.

“I hate to interrupt you two, what is going on here? I am quite sure all the rising of the dead and similar practices had been forbidden.” And what the Lich King forbade was simply not happening. No minion of the Scourge would be able to break their Master's ban, whether they wanted to or not.

Kel'thuzad was the faster one to respond: “We still keep in mind your recent complain about being surrounded by creepy corpses-”

“You didn't have to quote me.”

“-and we thought we could try to make our forms somewhat more to your liking.”

Bolvar Fordragon had been the Lich King for three months already and was somewhat familiar to Kel'thuzad's way of presenting things that would upset him. He immediately knew when any of his minions was lying to him, but Kel'thuzad's half-truths, avoiding direct answers, and subtle changes of topic were still tricky. Once he mentioned it to the Archlich and the flattered response was: “It was the only way to keep at least _some_ privacy in my mind.”

“That is, of course, appreciated. Now, what do you need that dead elf for? I hope for your sake this woman is dead.”

Lady Deathwhisper let out a long-suffering sigh: “Yes, Mas- Lord Fordragon, she is as dead as she could be. One of the acolytes who have had a closer interaction with irritated crypt spiders. Now to why we have it here... Well, how to explain. It is...” She lost words and looked hopefully at Kel'thuzad.

“We have sort of agreed that illusions and polymorphs of our forms is below us. What we are trying to achieve is conjuring an actual body as close to living as possible,” Kel'thuzad waved his hand at the elf's wounds, “however most of us, now I mean liches, come from different races... What I am trying to say is that creating a functional almost-living body is very hard on it's own. But creating them of many different species is... It isn't entirely impossible but it requires a lot of practical research.”

“To put it bluntly,” Lady Deathwhisper folded arms on her chest, “if you need to know how an elf works, you find yourself an elf and dissect it to pieces.” She shot Kel'thuzad an ugly look.

“I thought you agreed to participate in this, Overseer,” Kel'thuzad growled at her.

“At that time I didn't know you are going to persuade _me_ into cutting the body to pieces,” Deathwhisper hissed back at him.

“Oh, so you want to have your beautiful elven form but not do anything for it? What do you-” At that moment Bolvar ceased to listen and left the two highest ranking liches of the Scourge to their petty argument. Some things are better left to solve themselves alone.

 

“Miss Fluffle Jr., I don't care what you think, it is bath time and you are not getting out of it.” Gwen was crawling on all four under an acid tank and was trying to lure little Miss Fluffle with a fish head. Young girl was far more skilled in what she was doing, that being cat-hunting, than Miss Fluffle Jr., that being hiding away from Gwen.

“Here you are you cute little rascal. See, if you didn't wallow in rotten eggs, you wouldn't have to have a bubble bath,” said Gwen victoriously when she successfully caught the cat.

The cat squirmed and tried to get away but failed. “Don't be like that. If you are this nasty, you're going to catch some horrible sickness and die! And since Lord Lich King Fordragon prohibited all necromancy, we can't bring you back like Mittens if you die. And I am sure Mr. Bigglesworth would be very sad if one of her kittens would be gone forever. So you gotta take a bath for your mommy.”

Miss Fluffle Jr. didn't listen to Gwen's voice of reason and unhappily meowed.

Kel'thuzad, who was until now quietly watching the scene from the doorway ready to intervene if such a thing as the acid tank falling over happened, chuckled. That caught Gwen's attention and now she was staring at him in surprise. It must be said on her behalf that she was a responsible young lady and didn't let go off the cat.

Finally she found some words to say: “You look very different today, Master.” And because she knew Kel'thuzad could appreciate a little irony, as he thought it is a mark of intelligence, she added: “Experimenting with new colours?”

The lich smiled. As in he actually smiled, lips curling upwards and everything. Gwen couldn't help herself but shudder, somehow her master was scarier in flesh than in just bare bones. Maybe it was the torn and bloodied robe of Kirin Tor, which seemed as it had been thorough a battlefield or two and funeral of it's owner, maybe it was the insane look of unkept greyed hair and beard. Most likely it was the fact the body didn't really seem alive, yet at the time it did not look dead either. Gwen knew undeath when she looked at it and this looked nothing like it. It was scary.

“I believe,” Ke'thuzad said, “it will get better with time. No prototype was perfect at the first go. The digestive system seems to be a particularly tricky one”

Gwen nodded and pretended she understood perfectly what it meant. Miss Fluffle Jr. squirmed in her hands as she tried to wiggle free. It reminded the young girl she should be elsewhere doing something safer than chit-chatting with the Archlich, that is bathing a cat, so she excused herself and fled the room.

 

Cultists were sitting on the floor in a neat circle and enjoying their evening meal and a little bit of a pleasant conversation. Training that day was hard and harsh, just like any other, and the break was well deserved as much as needed.

A bald orc looked at a young elf sitting by his side: “Have you seen our Master's new form?”

The elf shrugged. He was one of the few who actually remembered Kel'thuzad back in the time when he was alive. “I'd say it is more of old form, really,” he hummed.

“It looks weird,” joined the conversation a troll sitting nearby

The elf looked at her and shrugged again. His friends were convinced he shrugged so often because he wanted to show off his ripped shoulders. “You are just not used to it, that is all.”

“He looks _human,_ ” protested the troll.

“Well he _is_ a human,” said the orc and set his bowl of meat mash aside

“He is the Archlich. Undead. Undeads are not humans, nor orcs, trolls or elves.” The elf sighed. He was regretting speaking to this topic already.

The troll seemed to thing about it and then said: “It still looks weird. And feels weird. Even weirder than the leopard cub.”

The orc, who was about to return back to eating, was interested: “What leopard cub?”

The troll grinned. No one can grin like a troll, even if the female grin is less toothy and therefore less impressive than their taller lankier male counterpart's. “Some acolytes who returned from Zul'drak fields brought a little leopard cub. A little kitten, you know? They are making bets when will our glorious Master notice.”

A dwarf with an especially complicated braided bun on her head nearly choked on her meal as she burst out in laughter.

“What?” asked her the orc. He was bald, old and wise, yet quite often confused.

“Oh, Master already knows,” she giggled.

“How can you be so sure?”

“He said that our little Gwen had named the little kitten Mittens.”

Everyone in the room went silent as they thought about the possible consequences. They all knew about Gwen's relationship to cats. And because there is a rule about speaking of devil, Gwen has just entered the room with a large snow white kitten in her arms. She passed by the cultists, the robe too big for her sweeping the floor, her steel leg clacking on the floor. The little girl left thorough the door on the opposite side of the room, she was most likely heading to stables.

“She needs a new leg,” concluded the elf after five minutes of silence. “She grew up, this one has gotten too short for her. She is limping as if she had been shot.”

“I'll talk to the smiths,” nodded the orc and there was a slight hum of agreement from everyone else. They then ate their meal in silence.


	2. Never Shall You Be Forgotten, Never Shall You Be Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Cataclysm came and everyone has to deal with their losses somehow.

ord Bolvar Fordragon, the Lich King of the Scourge and the Ruler of Northrend (at least the not wanted bits) was looking at his liches. Kel'thuzad told him there is a lot of them within the Scourge, but this wasn't exactly what Bolvar thought it would be like.

If they united together, they could had formed somewhat decimated battalion. Kel'thuzad offered to explain to him the lich hierarchy but he politely declined. For him it was more than enough that not every lich had his own necropolis, that some even have more of them, that some liches share one necropolis... It was confusing and complicated complex thing. The Archlich didn't agree with him, but didn't say a thing. Nevertheless he thought it so loudly Bolvar couldn't but hear it.

Hierarchy wasn't the topic of interest here anyway. The display was. For anyone who didn't know what he was looking at, it would had been hard to tell what did these people have in common. Most of them were humans or elves, some of them orcs or trolls. Bolvar came upon an empty place in the line. He stood there in confusion for a while until somebody gently knocked on his boot.

“Down here, Mas- Lord Fordragon.”

Bolvar looked down. Three feets above the ground there was a round gnomish face smiling at him. Green hair cut into bob were messy and stained with blood, across the black tattoo of the Damned was sprawled ugly scar resembling a crack. Owner of the face was clerly not dead but not entirely alive.

“Let me guess,” said Bolvar examining the scar. “Crushed head?”

“That was how I died, my Lord, right you are.”

Bolvar turned and moved on. It was... Strange. Weird. Unnatural. And that came from someone who was in charge of undead abominations patched together from other undead abominations. He looked at Kel'thuzad, who resembled more than half-insane mage in years past his prime. Kel'thuzad was looking slightly better than the rest of the liches, despite his body was the first one to be created.

“Very well then. I see a notable effort here,” said the Lich King finally. He thought it would made the liches stand more on ease, but instead he immediately felt their fear and the complicated feeling he learned to read as expecting painful punishment. Bolvar didn't know exactly what were his predecessors like to his minions but he was quite sure that whatever had happened, it was bad.

“I believe, Kel'thuzad, that you are already working on all those minor details that need to be worked on, isn't it so?”

Kel'thuzad took a deep breath and folded arms on his chest. “I am afraid, Lord Fordragon, that all those minor details, as you say, are nothing I can affect directly.”

Bolvar tilted head to side. “And why is it so?” he asked curiously. He had learned the hard way that showing interest why exactly things didn't work out was the only way to prevent a panic attack. Explaining was in Kel'zhuzad's nature.

“The artificial bodies we have conjured are the closest to an actual body of a living creature. It is complete with all its needs and failures.”

“So what is the problem here?”

Much to Bolvar's surprise, the Archlich was ashamed. “We had been undead for years, my Lord. In undeath we needed no rest, no food nor drink, we felt no physical pain.” He felt silent but the Lich King motioned him to continue, therefore he continued: “My Lord, there is so much we have to focus on and pay attention to. The processes so natural and automatic for the living are something we have our bodies order to do. Digesting for example. Motions. Breathing too.”

“I nearly suffocated myself the first two minutes in this form, because I forgot that this body actually needs to breathe,” mumbled Lady Deathwhisper from her post. Bolvar couldn't help himself but think that even in blood scattered all over her white silken night gown, the white haired night elf looks really beautiful. Among the liches, Lady Deathwhisper was one of the few women.

“As I said, my Lord, it is nothing I can directly change. But I am sure it will get better with time. After all, no one could ride a horse the day they sat on it for the first time.”

 

Kel'thuzad had finally some colour in face. It was mostly sick yellow but it was a colour. He had never realised that living body is such a maintenance. Damned Bolvar and his ideas... He didn't dare to think it out loud of course since he was at the moment speaking to him and giving a full report.

However the Lich King had an unnerving habit to ask irrelevant questions at the least appropriate moment possible. Like now: “And how comes we have a report of the political information of Stormwind?”

A direct question is just like an order and it is hard to dodge it. Almost impossible without any kind of preparations. “The Cult of the Damned has a field operatives in various places in order-”

“You mean spies,” Bolvar cut him off.

“Not _exactly,_ Lord Fordragon.”

“That means they are among many other things spies, isn't it so?” The Lich King was after all the time quite skilled in translating his Archlich.

Kel'thuzad sighed. “Yes, my Lord.” Then the report continued but Bolvar was lost in thoughts and when Kel'thuzad noticed it, which was quite soon, he went silent too. The cold chamber of the Icecrown Citadel was filled with echo.

After a while Bolvar spoke: “How many of those field operatives are in Theramore?”

“A few. Less then five, I think.” Kel'thuzad wanted to ask why but he didn't. In the Scourge you don't question your superiors.

“I am slightly concerned about Jaina Proudmoore. Someone should keep an eye on her, just to be sure she doesn't go insane...”

Kel'thuzad failed to see how would it relate to the Scourge, but he bowed and said: “I'll see to it.”

 

The duel was merciless, fierce, the opponents were of equal skill and power and their strategies were countering each other. The tension in the air was nearly solid. The spectacular show had drawn plenty of spectators who were now watching the two combatants in awed silence.

“So I use my Fireblast on your Murloc Oracle, which kills it-”

“You have no heart!”

“-Of course I don't I got sacrificed on altar, don't you remember? And now I summon this Water Elemental and it attacks-”

“It doesn't attack a broken bone, because it doesn't have charge and it has just got onto the battlefield. And you're out of mana, so I'm starting my turn.”

The cultists were so interested in the duel they failed to notice Lady Deathwhisper and her bloody pyjamas walking alongside Kel'thuzad discussing a little bit of Orgrimmar politic.

However, Lady Deathwhisper had noticed them and she quietly asked the ex-Kirin Tor mage: “What are they doing?”

“Playing Hearthstone, I suppose.”

“Tsch, Hearthstone...”

Kel'thuzad felt quite offended because in his young age he used to have a quite good Murloc-hunter deck. Maybe it was still somewhere to be found... One days he takes a free afternoon to look for it. It would be fun to play a set of Hearthstone again.

They left the room just as the the Discard-Warlock player mightily crushed the Elementalist-Mage. The applause followed the two liches all the way to the library.

 

A brave acolyte sneaked into Kel'thuzad's chamber. “Master?”

The Archlich was sitting on the floor, petting Mr. Bigglesworth. “Yes?” he didn't even bother to loom up.

“A report came in.”

“I am listening.”

“Hellscream attacked Theramore.”

The name of Garrosh Hellscream was only whispered within the walls of Naxxramas, or when it comes to it, any other necropolises. The Scourge respected him for his strategy. Back in the war there was a price of own necropolis and squadron of death knights on his head. None had gotten it, despite many had tried.

“I assume our people there are dead,” sighed Kel'thuzad. The acolyte nodded. No one had returned from Theramore, he said.

Mr. Bigglesworth meowed and then he began wailing,wailing only like a cat can wail. Soon all other cats, kittens and one snow leopard in Naxxramas joined. The acolyte was covering his ears but there was no escape from the noise.

When the wailing finally faded away, the acolyte noticed that Kel'thuzad seemed... Sad. He cleared his throat: “Master?”

“We will need a new cat keeper.”

“Master?” This time more confused.

“Gwen was there. In Theramore.”

 

It was rather silent those days. Not everyone within the Cult of the Damned had met Gwen. But everyone, at least everyone important, knew about her. Gwen was missed. Gwen was mourned. She invaded every space and every activity with her absence. The people weren't going to clean the acid labs, they were going to clean them _without Gwen._ They weren't telling funny stories at their evening meal, they were telling them _without Gwen._ The cats weren't wandering thorough Naxxramas freely, they were wandering there without _Gwen._

It didn't improve things that the team which had been sent to recover the bodies came back with empty hands. They didn't found anything. Well, almost. They hadn't found any body but they returned with child sized prosthetic leg made of steel. It was bent and badly damaged, half melted and scratched. But indeed it was Gwen's.

There was nothing they could resurrect or bring back into undeath. And even if there was, the Lich King would be against it. So they only reported to him sixteen dead members of the Damned, bluntly and without emotions, after all it was just statistics. Bolvar Fordragon didn't know Gwen and everyone knew better than to mention her to him.

Later Lady Deathwhisper found Kel'thuzad going thorough books.

“What are you doing?”

“Reading.”

“I have noticed. What are you reading?” she persisted in her questions.

“Funeral traditions of various races and nations,” Kel'thuzad answered. He was tired. He had never truly learned to keep a healthy sleep schedule. And when it came to schedules, there was one in the dining room saying which cultist and when is supposed to remind him to eat something.

The cult Overseer was considering the situation for a while, then sat down next to Kel'thuzad, opened the book closest to her and began reading. “I find the irony of the fate amusing. That after all the years it is just now when we have to decide what the burial ceremony will look like. Don't you think so?”

“I don't want to think about anything right now.”

 

“It was a nice pyre, don't you agree?”

“Sure it was. I didn't know the Master knew fire spells.”

“He was a mage in the days, you know. I more wonder where he learned to give speeches like that.”

“Maybe he died with it.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

An orc joined their small group: “Whatcha talking about?”

“Oh well, you know. The ceremony and so.”

“I loved it. It was heartbreaking. The speech was wonderful.”

“One has to wonder what else he could do with a tongue like that, eh?”

Pyre-loving elf shoved the troll into ribs: “You're a pig, Wanta, not a troll.”

“And you are too prude, Falahein. I can have dreams”

The orc scratched his bald head and huffed: “It would be nice if it was a thing.”

“If what was a thing?” the elf asked cautiously. “Sleeping with Kel'thuzad?”

“What? No! That's not what I meant. I was thinking about that speech. The last part.”

“That thing about not being forgotten and alone?” Wanta asked for clarification and when the orc nodded, she sadded: “That one was really touching, yeah. It should totally be a thing.”

 

“Kelly?” Lady Deathwhisper leaned in the doorframe. No one so far had been able to convince her to change from he silk night gown soaked with blood. _I had died in it and I am staying in it,_ she had said.

Kel'thuzad turned around and made an attempt to smile. “Yes, Elsinor, what is it?” Since their study of burial ceremonies, they were past and above titles and formalities. It is hard to be formal to someone who passed out on you three times within one hour.

Lady Elsinor Deathwhisper sat down to him and helped herself to some tea. Kel'thuzad was able to drink insane amount of it, in fact he could be probably fuelled by tea and sarcasm alone. In his chambers there was _always_ a kettle on. It was the first habit he picked up again when he got this fragile almost-living body.

“Tell me, why are our cultists greeting each other with _'you are not alone'_ and parting saying _'you are not forgotten'_?” Elven Lady was very charming. Not like Kel'thuzad paid attention to that much, but he could still appreciate the pale snow white beauty of hers. She was smiling at him, as if it was to soften him into actually answering.

Kel'thuzad sighed. “I am afraid it is a meme.”

Elsinor thought about it for a while and the asked confusedly: “Isn't meme sneaking a large predatory feline into a necropolis?”

The Archlich didn't blush but had at least enough dignity to stop scratching Mittens behind ears. “That... That is a different meme.”

 

Gwen woke up aching as if a wall had fallen on her. She was alone in a snowy field. Much to her surprise it wasn't cold. Above her there was a night sky with no moon or constellation she could recognise. She decided to go somewhere else. She kept walking until the snow faded into green grassy hills. There was a village. It was worth a try...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gwen will be fine. Dead, sure, but fine.


	3. Lifeless, Breathless, Restless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it is hard to adapt to living. If we can speak about life.

Sleep. Sleep was a tricky one. It was a naturally recurring state of mind and body. Every living being had both physical and psychical need for sleep. While the body regained strength, reseted itself, got rid of toxins and whatsoever, the mind had a needed break from thinking, the lifetime got separated into digestible portions called days, there was this wonderful thing called forgetting and sorting memories.

The undead, unlike the living, didn't sleep. Their bodies had no need to rest. Their minds were bent and broken, shaped into new forms, given there were _any_ minds left. If you had the privilege to keep your own thoughts and memories, you were supposed to use them nonstop.

Kel'thuzad was laying on the floor of his chamber. He knew the nearly living bodies the liches constructed for themselves needed to sleep while their minds had no such a need nor desire. He was trying to convince himself it was just a mental barrier he made himself, because sleeping is needed and easy. He just couldn't fall asleep because he didn't want to.

The truth was he was afraid. Some would have guessed he is was afraid to give up control over himself but that couldn't be further from true – he had no control over himself for years. The Lich King had, Kel'thuzad had not.

Dreams. Dreams were uncontrollable. Kel'thuzad remembered what was dreaming like. And he remembered some of his dreams from the time he was alive and in Ner'zhul's service.

 

Bolvar Fordragon was listening to the reports. The dragons causing havoc were a thorn in side but not in his side actually, and the Twilight Hammer was a good punchline to jokes. While everyone else was struggling with the upcoming end of the world, the Scourge prospered in the cruel harsh north. There were farms, then small villages and then towns. Bolvar had had no idea a glacier could be cultivated but apparently it could, and the frostwheat was surprisingly edible.

 _You look quite dead. What is the matter?_ he asked Kel'thuzad standing next to him. He would have asked out loud but it would be impolite to interrupt the cultist reporting.

The Archlich seemed tired. _I am dead,_ he answered promptly. It was thought without any bitterness in his mind, just a matter-of-factly statement.

_Answer the question._

_It is nothing, Lord Fordragon._ Nothing you'd have to worry about. That could of course mean "Don't worry, I've got this." but also "Don't worry, whatever happens, it doesn't happen to you." and since Kel'thuzad didn't look like he had got it, Bolvar suspected this time it was the latter.

Of course the Lich King was listening to the report too. If the Warchief of the Horde doesn't declare a war to the world only because an insane black dragon does it first, it is imperative to pay attention. But he was also worried about Kel'thuzad. He didn't like his second in command much, he was dodging a lot of questions, and his switch of loyalty from Arthas to him was suspicious. But he was indispensable. If there was a thing he didn't know about the Scourge and the Damned, no one knew it. And every day he was coming up with new discoveries, theories which he later disproved or confirmed, new spells and mixtures, innovations... And that was but a fraction of his knowledge. If something was wrong with Kel'thuzad, it was something to be worried about.

Bolvar looked at the lich and sighed. _You look tired._ It was left without an answer, so he continued: _Have you slept?_

 _I have no need to rest, my Lord._ But Bolvar sensed it wasn't entirely true. He caught the feeling of cold sweat, empty chambers and... fear? And then it was overshadowed by coffee. Memory of coffee to be precise.

The field operative, as was the fancy name for spies, finished her report and Bolvar dismissed the freezing dwarf with a wave of hand. _That was not an answer. Not to my question anyway._ Oh, you would like to dodge the question, Archlich? You'd have to do better than this.

There was awkward silence, both physical and mental. And then Kel'thuzad looked away and sighed:  _No, I hadn't slept._

_You should. I am fairly certain that while you do not need to sleep, the artificial body does. I believe that one of the lab astistants, what was her name, Acetal? Acetal filled me with every detail I didn't want to hear about this whole body project, need of sleep included. Which reminds me, had you eaten?_

If shame could bloom, Kel'thuzad would had been a bouquet. He didn't even need to answer.

Go, ordered the Lich King, and get some breakfast.

 

Wanta was looking at the far end of the table. She was pretending to be counting the bowls of soup but in fact she was watching the Archlich as he was making his way thorough what everyone called supper and he could call it the first meal in his death.

Wanta wasn't the only spectator, plenty of cultists had already finished their food and now just kept hanging around to watch the show. They'd deny it if asked, of course. Zarch put his helmet down on the table, rested his axe on the bench and sat down next to Wanta. The troll absent mindedly shoved a basked of bread under his nose.

“What's everyone staring at?” Zarch asked. Wanta only nodded in Kel'thuzad's general direction. Somebody at the table had just finished a joke and the laugh was a little too loud to not sound forced.

“See. Had you never seen a man eating?” Death knight wasn't interested, his bowl of soup had his full attention.

“Never like this. Never seen someone reading three books while trying to eat something while not knowing how to do that.”

“Seen him do worse.”

“Say what now?”

“I am a Lordareon veteran,” Zarch shrugged. That of course meant he was recruited back in Lordareon. “I remember how it was under Ner'zhul. Let me tell you, Master Kel'thuzad looked far worse back then than he does now. Who am I fooling, even when he was a floating skeleton he was in much better shape than he was back then.” That seemed to confuse his troll companion so he continued: “Look, in those times the cultists had homes they were supposed to live in, infiltrated villages or camps where they looked after themselves so they got food they found or wanted. Basically no other living person than the Master was with the army, you know? And the army didn't need food so it had none and Master had to stay with them. All the time.”

“Wait, wait, wait. Zarch, he was still a living being. He _had_ to eat something.”

“I am not saying he wasn't.”

“You said there was no food.”

“Well... There was a lot of grains,” Zarch began slowly and licked his pale lips.

“Plagued wheat is deadly, tastes terrible and has close to zero nutrition value,” Wanta folded arms on her chest.

Death knight shrugged: “It wasn't as if there was no meat walking around. There were options.” He laughed at the face his friend pulled. “See? That's why I don't complain about the canteen daily menu.”

 

The day after Bolvar found Kel'thuzad buried in cats. He coughed once. Twice. After the third time a hand emerged from the pile of fur and purr. Slowly, Kel'thuzad sat up.

“I wanted your thoughts on the situation in Stormwind but now I have a better question.”

“Mittens.”

“I beg your pardon?” The Lich King wasn't quite catching up with his second in command.

“His name is Mittens. Zul'drak scouts brought him here a few months ago.”

Bolvar finally stopped staring at the leopard and said: “You are telling me a sane person would bring a snow leopard in here and name it Mittens?”

“I said scouts. Living members of a cult with kill everything alive agenda. I think the sane part is really up to speculation,” Kel'thuzad shrugged and then he stood up. Only Mr. Bigglesworth was laying on his shoulders like a scarf, purring softly.

“And you decided to keep it here.”

“Gwen liked him and I didn't have he heart to throw Mittens out. And then it didn't do any harm and-”

“Hold on, lich. Who the hell is Gwen?”

 

_Overseer Deathwhisper, might I have a word?_

Lady Deathwhisper turned around to face her King and bowed to him low. The Lich King did his best to focus on anything else than the breast trying to fall out of the bloodied cleavage. It didn't really help the night gown was nearly transparent.

“Mast- My Lord, how may I serve you?”

_Give me one good reason why would the Scourge keep a two years old girl within itself._

“Future investment, my Lord. She would have grown into a truly loyal servant of yours. If the Scourge would be everything she knew and had, she'd never betray us.” Elsinor answered promptly as though she had that line learned. She most likely had, Bolvar reminded himself. Anyone with at least half of a working brain could run anything they'd like behind Arthas's back, as long as they had a reasonable sounding and promptly told answer if they were ever directly questioned about their rogue actions. Such as Haedan and his garden.

_Fine. More good reasons._

That seemed to caught lady Deathwhisper off guard. She bit her lip and then quietly asked: “Is this about the cultists starting families or is this about Gwen?”

A lot could be ran behind Bolvar's back, as it was proven now. _What families?_

“Maybe you want to sit on a chair, my Lord.”

 

The Archlich was trying to sleep. He was really doing his best. He got the hang on the eating, quite a feat after the whole year, but the sleep was still hard. He preferred his habit back from the days of his life, that was working so long until he passed out. But with this body it didn't really work, instead of sweet unconsciousness he got cramps, failing vision and everything about him reminded of a jammed machine.

Sleep was a waste of time that could had been used better, such as further research. And full of nightmares. Kel'thuzad turned his back to the door and did his best to not thing about dreams, nightmares, sleep or anything else. Behind his head Sir Puffy was purring at the level of a wood chipper. Without the cat-keeper, the felines got out of hands.

He gave up four hours later when he woke up for the third time, shaken and glad no one was around to hear him. _Nightmares. Just nightmares. Confused memories and feelings suppressed for so long._

And somewhere in the Icecrown Citadel Bolvar Fordragon, the Lich King, ruler of the Northrend, Scorched by dragon, and many other fancy titles, wondered, why was he suddenly feeling so cold.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the comments what keep this soap opera running. It's comment what keep running everything else, too. I sell souls for comments, Light damn it!


	4. Til Thoughts Do Us Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is telepathy explanation and an accounting metaphor for dreams and Bolvar realizes he inherited a bunch of very clever and very broken people from Arthas.  
> Have I mentioned that I don't know where the whole thing is heading? I have literally no plot plotted or twists twisted.

_The infrastructure is developing really nicely._ And it indeed did. One thing is to have reanimated dragons and gryphons at your command and other thing is having a well built infrastructure so your undead horses and soldiers can actually get somewhere on foot. Not to mention the cultists, but no one usually cared about the cultists.

“Indeed, Ma- My Lord,” Kel'thuzad nodded and rubbed his eyes.

“It was about time with all the outposts and small towns,” Bolvar said. He still hadn't the right grasp with the talking. Sometimes he talked only in his head, sometimes aloud, frequently both. But he was learning.

Kel'thuzad rubbed his eyes again and once again agreed. _He hadn't slept again,_ thought Bolvar.

“Yes, I hadn't.”

Awkward pause.

“Kel'thuzad, why do you hear my thoughts?” It wasn't said in anger, rather the question was asked with serious interest in the matter.

The lich rubbed his hands, explaining was something he was born to do. Not risen, mind him, but born. “It is the telepathic connection, I am afraid. It isn't my choice, actually. It is yours.”

“Very well then. Be so kind and... Elaborate on this telepathic connection. What is it exactly, how does it work. I know you know this. I am fairly certain you had done researches on this, too.”

 _Well, you aren't wrong, Master._ Bolvar caught the wayward thought and awarded Kel'thuzad with a frown for it. “This is going to start from the far away beginning but as you wish. The Scourge has two sources of power. That, that the minions already have, this is not related to this matter, and then that of the Lich King, therefore yours. Each undead ever created by the Scourge has a certain... There isn't a word for it. A seed. Or maybe rather a spark. A fragment of your power so small you could rise millions and millions of undead and not notice your power divided. This connects every single undead created by the Scourge to you. It is... Like a gigantic web and you are the spider sitting in the center, if you don't mind this comparison.”

“I don't, really. Continue, be so kind.”

“The tighter the connection is, the more we are... I'd say open to you. The bond is on the level of the souls because the bodies are...”

“Dead.”

“Yes. Or like clothes. Very practical to wear, but not part of us and not exactly necessary. We were, however, talking about the bond. Bound souls also share minds, to an extent. I believe you have heard of this. One of the side effects is telepathy between the bound individuals.”

Bolvar, who didn't like the implication of there being more side effects, nodded.

“And now how to put this... The soul bonds do not have to be... I think I can say equal. You are the superior one in it. So you... Decide who hears what. We can't speak to you unless we are allowed. We can't hear you unless we are allowed. You do not hear us unless you want to. I... Does it make sense even?”

“Perfectly,” Bolvar said. “It however doesn't explain why I sometimes don't hear your thoughts despite I would kill to know what is going on in that skull of yours.”

Much to the Lich King's surprise, Kel'thuzad looked ashamed. He awkwardly shuffled legs and folded arms on chest before he said: “My mind had been entered in rather painful manners before as a punishment for... unsuitable thoughts. I learned to keep my mind empty.

For the first time in his life (After-life? Undeath?), Bolvar was thankful for being charred by the dragon flame to black. Otherwise he'd gone pale as a wall. The lich had to notice the change, because he continued: “I have the bad habit of being unreasonably stubborn, sarcastic, doubtful, pessimistic, and from time to time...” Kel'thuzad paused, not sure how to shape the words around his thoughts, a thing quite common in him.

Despite being still new to the whole thing of mind reading, there was one thing Bolvar understood very well – thoughts were under no obligation to appear as words and even the formatting varied heavily from an individual to another. A mind could produce a thought unbelievably complicated in a remarkably simple way. It was a bit like listening to a dialect of a language you know. Thoughts were bits of words, sounds, feelings, pictures and sensations. Bolvar was fascinated by watching people thinking outside of his head when he had the chance, and the better grasp he had on the telepathy, the more opportunities he got. He considered himself quite good at translating wordless thoughts into words.

“Treacherous misbehaving heretic,” he finished for Kel'thuzad.

The Archlich ashamedly looked down on the ground. “Something along those lines, yes,” he mumbled.

The Lich King gave him a long look. Kel'thuzad's mind was usually completely empty, but on the rare occasions it wasn't, it turned into a gyrocopter wreck of related thoughts, feelings and memories. Sometimes the deceased ex-mage needed a helping hand: “Kel'thuzad, I am not like Menethill and definitely anywhere near Ner'zhul. My words aren't dogmas, independent thinking is not a crime, and having a different opinion or even disagreeing with me is not a treachery.”

The lich mumbled something about it being crystal clear to him while his mind emptied, an act that Bolvar translated as: “You're not catching me with an independent thought even if it had to kill me for once and for good.” Inheriting an army of undead sometimes brought very unexpected troubles when the style of leadership drastically changed.

“We've moved off the topic. So, infrastructure...”

 

Sleep. The gentle and delicate of process of the body functions slowing down while mind does the regular and ever so necessary cleanup. Shopkeepers close the store for a day, count how many things are missing, how many are overplus, sort everything in the back and order the stock, because in the previous days it got messy in the hurry of the opening hours, do the accounting work and fill the papers, maybe order new stock and throw out the expired, and call it the stock-taking. The bodily equivalent of stock-taking is sleep.

Dreams. The metaphorical accountant sits over the financial books in your brain and does the math with the recent memories. Sometimes the recent memories are a mess and he needs to take out the older memories from the for reference or for context.

Kel'thuzad is walking up the stairs. They swirl upwards in a spiral, the end beyond his sight and so is the beginning. There are bloody footprints on them. He is aware he is dreaming but there isn't anything he could do about it. He dreams and in his dream there is blood on the stairs.

Accounting is a hard and unpleasant work. There are debts, taxes, red numbers. They have the tendency to grow bigger, redder, greater when you neglect them. There are percents and interest rates. They accumulate. Grow.

Kel'thuzad dreams and in his dream there is blood on the stairs.

 

The Naxxramas was never silent, only quiet at best. There was the shuffling of the undead who never slept, screaming of those who slept or had fallen into hands of an improperly created ghoul, bubbling of slime, hissing of acid, cat meowing and doing weird cat things. To some people it was soothing, irritating to others. Kel'thuzad usually ignored it, as long as he didn't have to go and yell at people not to disturb him at work.

The artificial bodies were far from perfect. Of course, true perfection could be never reached, there could be always improvements, but so far the bodies were far from the Archilch's expectations, and that was something to be fixed.

“You aren't focusing.”

“Neither are you, Elsinor.”

Lady Deathwhisper sighed and wiped her brow. Her silky bloodstained nightgown danced around her feet gracefully as she turned around. “No, I am not,” she agreed, “because your lack of focus distracts me.”

“Then,” Kel'thuzad thrust the cleaver into the poor deceased dwarf's intestines with a bit more strength that was absolutely necessary, “let it not distract you.”

Another gentle and overly feminine sigh. “What results do you even expect from this... butchery?”

“I don't know.” He rested his head in hands, smearing his disaster of hair with blood.

“What is even the purpose of this? What are we trying to achieve here?”

“I don't know.”

“What is that with you, Kelly?”

He looked up at her with defeat in face. “I don't know.” When Elsinor sat down to him and put her delicate hand on his shoulder, he continued: “I am... tired.”

 _Of course you are,_ she thought. _Over a third of your existence you have been in the Lich King's service, knowing no rest, no appreciation, pushing aside everything you thought and felt, most of the time you were undead. You forgot what it is like to be alive. For me, undeath is just a tiny fraction of my time. To me the living body and life itself is just like slipping into a well worn shoe. But you had to run around barefoot for so long._

She caught herself looking at his feet. Most of the liches in artificial bodies decided to wear what they died in or what they were used to wear while they were alive. Kel'thuzad had a torn robe of Dalaran mages, bleached by weather and worn thorough rocks, stained in blood and better unspecified solutions. He had shoes which had once matched the uniform but had been badly damaged since. The soles were falling off, stitches coming undone, his heels and toes were showing thorough what once could have been a fine dyed leather. The whole thing was holding together by a miracle or maybe by pure power of will.

“You know, I think we need a day off, or maybe two,” she said with hesitation.

That shocked Kel'thuzad: “Elsinor, we are undead. Minions of the Lich King. We... We don't take a day off. Eternal servitude and stuff, remember?”

Elsinor remembered and said so. But she also added: “That's from the time when our memories and feelings were a distant objects far away from our minds. I am not sure how about you, but certainly mine have kicked in like a morning hangover. If I am to process this whole thing, I need a day off.”

Kel'thuzad gave it a thought. A lot of thoughts. “I have a bad, bad feeling about this.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starting the next chapter, we are still going to lack a solid bullet-proof plot, but I am so done with everything, that I kidnap this from the ugly canon and do whatever.


	5. Over The Hills (And Far Away)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two liches travel to Outland. One of them has someone else's memory of Draenor.  
> This chapter is chronologically speaking situated somewhat before Siege of Orgrimmar. Just so you know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am still bullshitting the plot thorough. I am going to write whatever I want, so it means this stuff is going to get far more interesting and about far more broken people.
> 
> Tomorrow I am graduating from high school, I have written over half of this chapter today. Just so you know how much I like studying chemistry. Typos and consequences be damned.

Bolvar, His Lich King Royal Majesty, had actually been considering sending Kel'thuzad ona vacation for quite a while. The only reason it hadn't happened so was Bolvar's concern that Kel'thuzad would translate it as being unwanted or even pushed away. Therefore it came as a big relief that the Archlich asked for a few days off by himself. Bolvar granted him three weeks, stated he was more than willing to extend the vacation if the lich felt he needed it, and assured him that in case of need he would call for him of course.

Kel'thuzad and Lady Deathwhisper were packing. Rather, they were uselessly sitting in a chamber, wondering what could they even need to pack. Leady Deathwhisper never really traveled in her life, and Kel'thuzad never bothered packing, because when he had to travel, he didn't own anything to pack. And after they died, it was never really much of a need. But the bodies required something for sure.

"Where are we going to go, even?" asked the Overseer out of sudden and broke the deadly silence which filled the chamber like suffocating cotton.

“You don't know?”

Elsinor Deathwhisper shook her head. “I even don't know what the options are. My whole life I lived in Forlorn Woods and never went much far. Of course, I have visited the Well of Eternity, but... Eh,” she waved her hand in dismissal.

“Outland.”

“What?”

Kel'thuzad stood up and stretched his back. It made a very ugly cracking sound as if his spine was breaking. “I want to see the Outland. Draenor. The Orc homeland. I want to see where all of this,” he made a vague gesture involving everything around, “had started.”

“I have no idea where that is or what are you talking about.” To attain a leading position within the Scourge, you didn't need to learn history, you needed to be good at commanding and not completely dull. “But it sounds like a good plan.”

For a while they were exchanging grins and then Elsionor, raised in a manor from her childhood, leaned out of the door frame and shouted: “The Archlich and I are having a business. Pack our luggage for three weeks!”

When you don't know what to do with a problem, it is great to have minions to make it their problem to figure out.

 

“You never said you are a dimensionalist,” mused Elsinor as they approached the Dark Portal. “Is there a field of magic you haven't specialized in?”

Kel'thuzad shrugged, a miniature pocket dimension containing two very large suitcases stuffed into his pocket “Oh yes, many of them.” His companion didn't seem to believe him, so he continued: “Years ago the Archmage rank didn't mean only slightly more educated mage, but a mage whose skill and knowledge exceeded a specialist in more than four fields. I thought that I should, you know, _deserve_ that status.”

“You don't think of Kirin Tor highly, do you?”

“No, I don't.”

Elsinor quirked an eyebrow on him with a chuckle: “Haven't you been in their leadership?”

“Yes. That gives me the right to actually despise them.” And to avoid further conversation, Kel'thuzad stepped thorough the Portal.

Elsinor thought something about fragile man ego and followed him. The starry darkness between the worlds was much warmer than she expected. The Hellfire Peninsula was much colder than she expected. Kel'thuzad and Elsinor, both being fond of magic more than people, blinked their way thorough it.

The barren red lands offered neither of them any amusement or a reason to take any interest in it. When they reached the first trees, however, they both slowed down into an ordinary walk.

“Are we heading anywhere specific?” Lady Deathwhisper asked as she picked up a terrocone. She cooed at it a few words in Darnassian, a language Kel'thuzad did not speak and therefore couldn't laugh at the woman for calling a cone beautiful.

The lich shook his head. “No. We are just browsing, I suppose.”

“I see.” It sounded very doubtful.

He turned to her: “What? What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing.” Elsinor threw the cone away and picked up another one, more perfect in her eyes. “The thing is that you don't move like someone who is walking around without a purpose, just looking and having time. It's just the two of us, I am not a dumb cultist. I never was, I was raised with a purpose, Kel'thuzad. I am the Overseer. I see. I oversee you, too. To an extent.” She took another breath. “So. Where are we going? And don't you lie to me, there's no fooling me.”

Kel'thuzad stopped in his tracks. He looked around and rubbed his eyes and the bridge of nose. With a soft sigh he said: “I don't know, alright? We are just- just walking. At least I am. Okay? Don't try to look for something more in it.” It didn't sound much convincing and certainly Elsinor didn't look much convinced. “Fine, fine. Let's sit down for a while. This is going to be some talking. It isn't probably going to make much sense anyway.”

They sat down on a nearby rock and Kel'thuzad explained.

 

_The grass was cold, silver with dew lit by moonlight. The sky held unknown constellations, yet he could name every single one of them. The Eye, the Wolf of Snow, the Wold of Fire, Doomhammer... He could name them, yet he has never seen them before._

_To his left he saw great stones in the field. The Burial Fields, he realized. How does he know them? He had walked these land thousand times, memorized the sky in every night of the year. The land had spoken to him countless times, he could hear it whisper if only-_

I HAVE PROMISED YOU A LESSON.

_The voice was everywhere. Suddenly Kel'thuzad was more than aware that he isn't standing on any distant world, but in the ice filled cavern, webs spun tightly around him. He could feel them. Yet he couldn't. The grass and skies of Shadowmoon felt more real than the reality._

BECAUSE I HAVE NO TIME TO WASTE, _Ner'zhul's voice continued to crack his skull, as if it was a hammer,_ YOU WILL LEARN THE FASTEST WAY POSSIBLE.

_“From experience?” The exiled archmage wasn't sure whether he had actually said that or merely thought it strong enough. The difference, however, was all the same._

YES. FROM EXPERIENCE. MY EXPERIENCE. YOUR TEACHING BEGINS NOW.

_And suddenly everything was pain._

 

“That has to hurt,” Elsinor concluded.

“Huh?”

“Looking around, I mean. You have the memories of someone who has known this place like it was before, someone who clearly loved it. And now you come to see for yourself, and you see, well, this. I have never liked Shandaral, I hated it even, so it wasn't hard for me to accept his destruction upon my ascending. But you have felt love for this place, whether you chose it or not. It has to hurt to see it like this.”

Kel'thuzad only shrugged. “I don't feel a thing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Not on the emotional level at least, which was your assumption, a false on if I might add.”

If the Scourge had had lawyers, which it hadn't, Elsinor Deathwhisper, born Springwhisper, would had been one of them. “And what about the other levels?”

Kel'thuzad pulled a face as thought he had just bitten into a lemon: “Well, Ner'zhul had been a shaman. And I was a very good apprentice. I suppose you don't hear a thing, do you?”

“What should I hear?”

“Or feel, really. This land screams in pain. It's deafening. I almost can't hear myself think.”

A pause. The silence between the two of them got rather awkward. “I suggest picknic. But not here, here it's too gloomy. And my body is getting hungry, so we'd better hurry up.”

 

Why Elsinor considered the ruins of Auchindoun less gloomy than the forest, was a mystery. But after a bit of reasoning with local spirits, which the two necromancers simply delivered to the Light as it was less trouble, they put down a blanket and a basket with some food. And a bottle of wine. Elsinor had said that as a dead she cared not much for the taste, but she hadn't had much chance to experiment with the effects of alcohol on her artificial body.

Currently they were both two glasses deep into the bottle. While not drunk, not even tipsy, the placebo effect got them quite talkative and affectionate. Had anyone seen them, they could think them an elderly and sickly love couple.

Elsinor was resting her head in Kel'thuzad's lap, as she complained his shoulders were too many bones and no muscles to rest on. Kel'thuzad didn't seem to care about either of that.

“Hm, you know what I have just realized?”

“That you are wearing only nearly transparent silken nightgown, which is fairly bloodied and torn, and therefore bound to attract a lot of attention, shall we meet anybody?”

The Elf lich just waved her hand. “Eh, nah, who cares about that? I have only thought that you should had had a chance to fight Gul'dan. A shame he died so early, really.”

“Why do you think so?”

She flashed a grin that was surprisingly toothy, clearly upon making the body she took some liberties with the anatomy. “Because you two both were Ner'zhul's apprentices. Now, that would be epic, you must agree.”

“You read too much of those juice books the cultists have.” But it made Kel'thuzad chuckle at least, which the other lich counted as a victory.

“I need to know what I am confiscating, don't I? And they are called pulp. Not juice, but pulp. You should read some, they are fun.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, the title is a reference to Nightwish. But that song doesn't relate to this, not even slightly. It was just a good pretentious title.


	6. Thorough the Valley of the Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shadowmoon isn't the best place to visit if you had ever to do anything with Ner'zhul.

“Dear Elune's garters.”

“Haven't you... abandoned this deity?”

Deathwhisper shot her fellow lich an ugly look, made even uglier by widly frowning eyebrows. “Well, of course. Make a good enough expression of terror with borderline cuss related to our current undead situation, and I swear by the stars that I'll pepper it into my every conversation.”

Kel'thuzad, who was for once unable to gather a proper thought regarding anything linguistic, remained silent. He only stared.

“What? Have you frozen yourself in place? I mean, I am joking, but I wouldn't be surprised if you did. It wouldn't be the first time this week. I have woken up this morning and there was hoarfrost over everything, let me tell you.”

 

Kel'thuzad had once explained to Bolvar- No, no, wrong. Again.

Kel'thuzad had once explained to the Lich King, back when the Lich King was Arthas Menethil, but to the Lich King nevertheless, that the Scourge was like a giant spiderweb. Or maybe it was Anub'arak? It was the Nerubian King who used to describe everything as a giant spiderweb. But the whole explanation sounded like something Kel'thuzad would have said.

When you happen to be a being that changes heads, minds and bodies like other people change, say, socks, you tend to forget who said what, only the fact it had been said persists. Bolvar Fordragon wasn't even exactly sure which of his memories were actually his own. He was the most certain that such memories as the ones of complicated shamanistic rituals, recipes for making blue warpaint, leading a war against the New Avalon, serving as the warrior of the Light, or being intimate with Lady Proudmoore, weren't _his_ memories. Those were more or less easy. Some were harder. Wielding a war hammer. Who had heard those dwarf jokes? City in flames. Was it his life long wife who died? Maybe it was him who painted a skull on his face after all...

 _Somebody,_ once had told the Lich King that the Scourge was like a giant spiderweb and he, the Lich King, was the gigantic brood mother spider in the middle, while much smaller spiders sat around, waiting still. All the threads of the web lead into the middle, that is a well known fact. Whenever one of those smaller spiders made a move, whenever a victim got caught, the web moved. The Lich King knew about everything in the web. Some of the neighboring small spiders knew about too, if they were in good places, such as really close, or on the threads leading to the center. The Lich King knew about everything happening in his web.

At least, such was the theory. Bolvar had more of the feeling he was somewhat tangled in the web by himself, desperately trying not to fall out, and while he was doing his best to get all the information possible out of the web, he wasn't exactly sure which thread was which and what did it mean when it moved that way or this way. Also, he was pretty damn sure that somebody had been using the web as a dishcloth for a while, and now it was soggy, unpleasant to touch and tangled like banshee hair.

However, if there was a great movement happening near the center of the web, even Bolvar couldn't miss it.

“Master,” he heard a chilly whisper coming somewhere from his knees. There was a gnome standing close to him.

The Lich King groaned and rubbed his eyes in an attempt to do something with his terribly blurred vision. It didn't get much better, but at least enough to recognize the gnome – it was the only gnome among the liches. She looked rather worried, as she added: “Are you alright? You suddenly... well, doused a bit.”

“I think,” Bolvar managed to form what he felt into thoughts and thoughts into a sentence, “that the Archlich has rather a strong opinion on the fel.”

“Does he now?”

“And about shamans, too.”

Acetal, as the lich happened to be named in her life, frowned: “Is that the one opinion about locking them in tight metal boxes and never having them for dinner?”

That confused Bolvar: “Wait. That's his public opinion?”

“More or less, yes. He always says that to the newbies, in case they'd reconsider their opinions and decided for a warlock career.”

Bolvar pondered it for a moment and sighed: “It would be easier if I could simply see into his soul. His mind... is a mess.”

“Oh, that would be very easy if we had his phylactery,” Acetal offered helpfully.

“ _If?_ You mean-”

Acetal looked embarrassed and her once green hair, now mostly moldy gray, reflected the skullfire light as she bowed her head: “We sort of... lost it. Back in Plaguelands, Master. During the first raid of Naxxramas. Haven't found it since.”

 

“Have you finished?” Lady Deathwhisper was watching Kel'thuzad with what could be both deep academical interest or malicious glee. Kel'thuzad's lack of response was strongly indicating that he was nowhere near finished. There was a low and pitiful moan.

“You know, it is really interesting to observe from outside. Gross too, but mainly interesting.” She stepped to side, the trail of the black goo had nearly reached her feet. “As you are spending power on maintaining this form and losing focus, this body is... drastically changing. I can see the horns now.”

Kel'thuzad managed to look up, spit and mumble a quiet “Fuck you” before he was forced to return throwing up more ooze. From his point of view, his whole predicament was certainly scientifically interesting and also hurting like a bitch. He was all up to analysis, once his chest stopped feeling like burning to ashes.

It was another trouble with sleeping. Not only there were dreams, which turned out to be quite manageable with a slight abuse of poppy milk mixed with peacebloom tea before hitting the pillows, but there was also the fact that no matter how fast were you able to got from _asleep_ to _fully awake,_ there was at least a split second when you were in both worlds and neither. The moment of existence when your brain has to remember what and where and when you were, do the roll call of legs, fingers, hands and sensory organs.

There was also a thing which Kel'thuzad called forcefully learned behavior, such as the one pressed and forced on you by your previous mentor who used to made you freeze yourself into a block of ice if your performance was not to his liking. This was a very dangerous thought to pursue any further, because badmouthing Ner'zhul was badmouthing the Lich King and that was a treason and reasons was painfully punished. Usually by being forced to freeze yourself into a block of ice.

The combination of years of teaching and a confused waking moment had made Kel'thuzad reach to the Furies of the world when his brain had told him that he was a shaman (or at least taught by a shaman anyway) and that he is in Shadowmoon. Great had been Kel'thuzad's surprise when he found mere moments later only fel and corruption where his mind was expecting the elements. His body was getting rid of it the easiest way possible.

He spat out the last mouthful of the black goo which still felt bitter and burning at the back of his tongue and managed to recollect himself enough to at least stand up.

“Are you alright?”

“I've had hangovers that were worse,” Kel'thuzad assured his fellow lich. And after a moment of thoughts he added: “But I knew what I did to deserve those at least.”

Elsinor Deathwhisper was watching the slimy liquid slowly sinking into the ashen black ground. “I wonder where this even came from. You know, it seems to be too much of it to even fit into you, not to mention that your body had to create all of this from something.”

Kel'thuzad, who had backed away from the aforementioned black _all of it,_ was now checking his less humanly seeming form. Certainly he wasn't bare bones, there was skin, but he looked very... dried up. “That's magic for you. Such energy loves to transform either into matter or heat. Or both,” he added. The goo was still bubbling and boiling.

For a while there was silence, or nearly silence, as Kel'thuzad was mumbling spells and weaving magic to look like a living being at least, although the horns apparently couldn't be helped.

“I suggest we move on from here,” said Lady Deathwhisper finally. “Ever since we've crossed the bridge, you've been nothing but a disaster.”

“Bold of you to assume,” Kel'thuzad sighed under his breath, “that I've ever been anything else.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feed me comments. I'm a hungry author. Feed me comments!


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